did he never answer?
He left the college and walked into Canberra, passing some beautiful trees with orange leaves on the way, while under them some students were reading quietly in a tranquil Arcadia of their own. For a brief moment his university days returned to him, piercing and present, in a fresh poignancy of feeling. Then he remembered quite out of the blue that Australians were compelled to vote and unless they did so they were fined. He made his way to the post office and asked if he could see the voting registers. But if Douglas had only been in Canberra a short time his name might not be on the register. He looked up the name DOUGLAS but could find only three and none of them had the initials that he had been given.
When he came out of the post office he didnât know what to do next. He had no address for Douglas and he felt helpless and baffled. He sat down on a green bench beside a tramp who had a bag at his feet and as before he watched a small bird pecking at crumbs which had been thrown to it by passers by. It occurred to him that its fierce dedication to the moment wouldnât allow it to comment on its surroundings even if it wished to do so: birds couldnât be poets, however lyrical for instance nightingales might appear in mythology. Prose, poetry, these were the luxuries of a mind which preyed on landscapes and people, freed from economic necessity. A fountain jetted clear water into the sparkling air. A man was talking into a microphone about the Fraser Government, attacking it for its right-wing policies that were causing so much unemployment. All around him he could see the privileged, well-dressed people in an arcade that had beautiful shops.
Feeling suddenly disgusted with his own idleness, he walked back to the college again, as if he were hurrying to a specific destination. He didnât know what he would do if Douglas didnât communicate with him. He passed a police station and nearly went in to ask if they knew anything about Douglas, if they had his name on their books, but decided against it. There would have to be too much explanation, too much documentation, too much questioning. He turned towards his college and stood for a moment, before turning in, staring down at some ants which were scurrying across the dusty earth with their burdens of twigs. Even when they bumped into each other with obsessive haste they did not stop but continued on their relentlessly urgent journeys which to him appeared so mysterious.
He went to his room and lay down on the bed, then phoned Douglas again. Again the phone rang and rang with the same hollow sound, and no one answered. Had Douglas by some final black joke given him the number of a public call box and was the phone ringing perhaps at the side of a road somewhere? He looked down into the garden below at the red chairs, hearing from them the sound of laughter as people ate and drank from the wooden tables set in front of them. Such a simple almost bucolic scene! It seemed to him like a theatre readying itself for a great invisible event. The sprinklers played over the dusty earth in remorseless shining arcs and among the trees he saw a black cat loping silently, now and again stopping and gazing up into the trees where birds with brilliant plumage were perched like unattainable fruit.
Again he phoned and again there was no answer. He poured himself a whisky and lay on the bed watching the ceiling. He felt sleepy, and did not wish to continue with the notes of the lecture he had been preparing before he had left for Sydney. Then suddenly the phone rang stridently and he picked it up quickly. A voice at the other end said,
âIs that Mr Grierson?â
âHere,â he said eagerly.
âThis is Malcolm Douglas,â said the voice. âYouâre back from Sydney? Did you find out anything?â
âI did,â said Trevor. âCould I see you?â
âWhen?â
âWell, could you come here or could I go
He left the college and walked into Canberra, passing some beautiful trees with orange leaves on the way, while under them some students were reading quietly in a tranquil Arcadia of their own. For a brief moment his university days returned to him, piercing and present, in a fresh poignancy of feeling. Then he remembered quite out of the blue that Australians were compelled to vote and unless they did so they were fined. He made his way to the post office and asked if he could see the voting registers. But if Douglas had only been in Canberra a short time his name might not be on the register. He looked up the name DOUGLAS but could find only three and none of them had the initials that he had been given.
When he came out of the post office he didnât know what to do next. He had no address for Douglas and he felt helpless and baffled. He sat down on a green bench beside a tramp who had a bag at his feet and as before he watched a small bird pecking at crumbs which had been thrown to it by passers by. It occurred to him that its fierce dedication to the moment wouldnât allow it to comment on its surroundings even if it wished to do so: birds couldnât be poets, however lyrical for instance nightingales might appear in mythology. Prose, poetry, these were the luxuries of a mind which preyed on landscapes and people, freed from economic necessity. A fountain jetted clear water into the sparkling air. A man was talking into a microphone about the Fraser Government, attacking it for its right-wing policies that were causing so much unemployment. All around him he could see the privileged, well-dressed people in an arcade that had beautiful shops.
Feeling suddenly disgusted with his own idleness, he walked back to the college again, as if he were hurrying to a specific destination. He didnât know what he would do if Douglas didnât communicate with him. He passed a police station and nearly went in to ask if they knew anything about Douglas, if they had his name on their books, but decided against it. There would have to be too much explanation, too much documentation, too much questioning. He turned towards his college and stood for a moment, before turning in, staring down at some ants which were scurrying across the dusty earth with their burdens of twigs. Even when they bumped into each other with obsessive haste they did not stop but continued on their relentlessly urgent journeys which to him appeared so mysterious.
He went to his room and lay down on the bed, then phoned Douglas again. Again the phone rang and rang with the same hollow sound, and no one answered. Had Douglas by some final black joke given him the number of a public call box and was the phone ringing perhaps at the side of a road somewhere? He looked down into the garden below at the red chairs, hearing from them the sound of laughter as people ate and drank from the wooden tables set in front of them. Such a simple almost bucolic scene! It seemed to him like a theatre readying itself for a great invisible event. The sprinklers played over the dusty earth in remorseless shining arcs and among the trees he saw a black cat loping silently, now and again stopping and gazing up into the trees where birds with brilliant plumage were perched like unattainable fruit.
Again he phoned and again there was no answer. He poured himself a whisky and lay on the bed watching the ceiling. He felt sleepy, and did not wish to continue with the notes of the lecture he had been preparing before he had left for Sydney. Then suddenly the phone rang stridently and he picked it up quickly. A voice at the other end said,
âIs that Mr Grierson?â
âHere,â he said eagerly.
âThis is Malcolm Douglas,â said the voice. âYouâre back from Sydney? Did you find out anything?â
âI did,â said Trevor. âCould I see you?â
âWhen?â
âWell, could you come here or could I go
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